Breunig: What's in a name on a piece of paper?

Published 9:45 pm, Friday, July 26, 2013

My friend Mike Weiss looked at the cardboard poster I had just bought at the Americanarama concert in Bridgeport last week and noticed it was already outdated before the second of the four acts had taken the stage.

"It's a collector's item," he said, noting that it was printed before the show was moved indoors from the Ballpark at Harbor Yard.

"Hey, this will make it even more of a collector's item," I replied. I handed it to a stranger approaching the merchandise booth. "Welcome to Connecticut. Could you sign this?" I asked.

"Sure thing," he replied, and signed a looping "Ryan Bingham" over his own name, which appeared on the bill below Bob Dylan, Wilco and My Morning Jacket.

It occurred to me later that it was the first time I had ever asked anyone for an autograph for myself. The request was merely serendipitous; I was holding the poster and he happened to walk up. No one else seemed to pick up that he had just left the stage, but as I said to friends, "Hey, he's the only other guy here with an Oscar," referring to his win for Best Original Song for the Jeff Bridges movie "Crazy Heart," and Mister Tambourine Man's tiny gold man for "Things Have Changed" from "Wonder Boys."

I was at the concert as a music fan, not as a journalist. I have often barked the No Autograph Mandate at reporters en route to interviewing celebrities. Some have been perplexed by this. I am perplexed that they are perplexed. A journalist should not compromise the interview by asking for favors or leaving an impression they are fans. Moreover, as I have explained many times, isn't the privilege of interviewing or photographing a noted subject of greater value than a piece of paper bearing their scrawl?

I've had a running discussion on this subject for 20 years with Scott Smith, who used to be an editor at The Advocate and Greenwich Time. Scott refers to this as part of his "No Cheering in the Press Box" rule. His rule, however, lost a showdown with the "Family Comes First" rule in 1987, when Scott was a freshly minted professional journalist covering a fundraiser at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire. Though he was already seasoned enough to resist the temptations of asking for autographs from other heroes such as Bob Gibson and "Weird Al" Yankovic (sigh, not a typo), the event's grand marshal proved too powerful a lure.

"This is Ted Williams, my dad's all-time favorite player," he reasoned. "I'm never going to have this chance again. I don't give a damn."

Brushing off the "Don't do it, kid" warnings of older scribes, Scott approached the Splendid Splinter, notorious for teeing off on reporters like he did on the eephus pitch in the 1946 All-Star Game.

"Sportswriters," Williams mumbled, rolling his eyes and flipping his signature to Scott.

He says he wouldn't make a similar request today. But the game that day was changed by a combination of youthful chutzpah, a son's love and a seemingly once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

"The irony is Dad got a better autograph from him later on," Scott recalls.

The first time I interviewed cartoonist Mort Walker at his Stamford home, I asked his art assistant, Bill Janocha, if he could provide any of Walker's "Beetle Bailey" artwork to run with the story. As he handed me and our photographer collections of cartoons, he commented that Walker would be happy to sign it. While I was babbling about The Mandate, Jonocha smiled wryly while peering over my shoulder. I heard a chuckle and turned to see Walker writing in the photographer's book.

I later apologized about embarrassing the photographer, who earnestly quizzed me about my reasoning. A few weeks later, he returned to the office to report he had just seen Andy Rooney graciously accept a freelance reporter's request to visit the "60 Minutes" set for a feature, then bark at the same reporter (and rescind the offer) when he requested an autograph.

"Yup, I get it now," the photographer said.

Walker, meanwhile, only saw our awkward exchange as yet another road to a punch line. In the weeks after the article appeared, he continued to mail me signed postcards. Invaded by his squadron of Beetle Baileys, I was defenseless.

It wasn't the first time I failed to reject autographs while on the job. While in a corner booth at an empty Greenwich Avenue restaurant one afternoon 20 years ago, a trio of women recognized the subject of my interview and approached in search of souvenirs. He reached into his briefcase, pulled out small cards and slowly signed "Muhammad Ali" across a classic image of himself in the ring. Each time he signed a card, he handed it to me to pass along across the table.

Though Parkinson's disease had already made it difficult for Ali to sign, he focused on the task at hand and quickly signed more cards than the population of the room. I handed back four cards and commented that he had a head start for next time. When your signature is Muhammad Ali, next time is always a few minutes away. But he playfully pushed them back, insistent that he sign for each individual person. I argued the point, but somehow walked away with four Ali autographs and an 0-1 record against The Greatest.

I have an odd collection of other random autographs that I have great fondness for, though I didn't ask for any of them. Former Greenwich Time Sports Editor Eric McHugh once felt bad that I had to work while he went to a Cowboy Junkies concert at the Terrace Club in Stamford, and returned with a postcard for the show signed by lead singer Margo Timmins with the message, "Sorry we missed you."

Another friend, former New York Times and Advocate editor Dan Berman, was also off duty when he won our private competition in the category of best small thank-you gifts for airport pickups. He walked off a plane and handed me Hank Aaron's autobiography. Pretty good, I thought to myself, though it didn't quite seem to justify his self-satisfied grin. Then I looked closer and realized the smile was well-earned. He got Aaron to sign the book, at Milwaukee Airport no less.

My wife has never asked for an autograph, but once received a handwritten thank-you note from actress Ruby Dee in response to a story she wrote. Given her respect for Dee and her late husband Ossie Davis, she has saved the note to one day bequeath to our son. Ironically, the couple lived near my childhood home, yet I know of no one else who has her autograph.

Despite my stand that any autograph is mere ephemera, I confess to being something of a hypocrite on the matter. As a newsroom tradition, I have asked staff members to sign objects over the years to give to departing colleagues. It began with baseballs, and has included everything from a rowing paddle to a deck of playing cards to venetian blinds, all reflections of the recipient.

But carrying this signature tradition into my private life backfired on me. I once made the mistake in the back of a limo of asking fellow members of a wedding party to sign the groom's wooden walking stick. It was only when we handed it to him that I learned the stick had been rented.

It was the only time someone had to pay for my autograph.

John Breunig is editorial page editor of The Advocate and Greenwich Time. He can be reached at john.breunig@scni.com; 203-964-2281; http://twitter.com/johnbreunig.